


Everything About You

by CuriousThimble



Series: Cold Hands, Warm Heart [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 08:36:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16215404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuriousThimble/pseuds/CuriousThimble
Summary: When Evette has a near-death experience, the rest of the evening is spent in recovery.





	Everything About You

“Dammit, Amell!”

 

Evette winces and squeezes her eyes shut. The smell of burning hair made the noise and pounding in her head worse, and she tried desperately to keep from gagging. Her skin is on fire, and her whole body feels as if she’s been turned inside out. She tries to move, to roll away or sit up, anything to get herself away from the nearby sound of battle, but her limbs are too heavy to allow any movement.

 

“Can you hear me?”

 

The voice is too loud and echoes in her head, so she turns her face away from it, keeping her eyes shut tightly. The heat on her skin is too much, she’s going to turn to ash any minute.  _ Maker, what happened? _

 

Hands pass over her body, and a low moan escapes her at the pain in their touch. 

 

_ I never saw the spell... _

 

The sounds of battle dim, then die out completely, but it doesn’t stop the roaring in her ears.

 

_ Only heard that awful crack… _

 

Hands, cooler than the ones that hurt her, touching her face. Soft whispers calling her name, and a cool cloth over her eyes. Cool comfort spreads over her body like a blanket, and her breath releases in a sigh as some of the pain begins to subside. 

 

“Evette, can you hear me?”

 

It’s Wynne, her voice faded like a dried flower, and Evette nods, licking her lips. “Yes,” she rasps.

 

“Can you open your eyes?” she asks, removing the cloth.

 

It takes a great deal of effort, but slowly she lifts her eyelids, revealing bloodshot silver eyes. Wynne is leaning over her with a look of concern, Alistair and their companions behind her all wearing the same expression.

 

_ How curious. They’re looking at me like I should have died. _

 

“Alistair, help her sit up,” Wynne instructs. “Slowly, and mind her neck.”

 

Evette can feel his hands trembling as he helps her, letting her lean back against him for support. She slowly sips a health potion as the world around her comes back into focus. The vegetation around her is littered with wood splinters and scorch marks, and she follows their trail to see the tree she’d been using as cover split down the middle. “What happened?” she asks.

 

“That group of darkspawn was led by an emissary,” Alistair explains, his hands moving over her constantly as if he were checking for broken bones.

 

“Oh,” she says softly. “Lightning.” The smell of burnt hair lingers, and she reaches back to find her long black hair destroyed and hanging in ragged, uneven lengths around her shoulders. “Oh,” she repeats flatly. Her robes and gloves are also covered in small holes burned into the silk. “The emissary was very powerful.”

 

“You’re lucky you were hit with a branch of it, and not the bolt itself,” Wynne tells her. She looks around and sighs. “I suppose this is as good a place as any to make camp.”

 

“It’s early, Wynne,” Leliana says.

 

“There’s a village not far from here,” Morrigan adds, looking at the map. “Can you walk a few miles, Evette?”

 

“I don’t think that’s wise,” Wynne protests as Evette get unsteadily to her feet. “Evette, you’ve been electrocuted. Even with magic, you need rest.”

 

“A bed would be nice, yes?” Zevran asks. “Better than a bedroll on the ground.”

 

“I’m fine,” Evette assures her, keeping her face as impassive as possible in spite of the pain in her joints. “I can walk.”

 

Alistair walks behind her, ready to catch her when she faints. He can see Sten nodding approval as they make it back to the road, glad to see their leader ignoring her pain and moving forward. She leans heavily on her mabari Rusty, letting him support her much of the time so as not to slow them down.

 

By the time they reach the village, the only tavern is lit and full of laughter, the sound spilling out of the open windows and bringing life to the still summer air. Leliana makes arrangements for their rooms while Wynne pulls Evette close to the lamps for a close examination of her pale skin and bloodshot eyes.

 

“You still don’t look well,” Wynne clucks like an old hen. “I can bring your dinner up if you want to lie down.”

 

“No, Wynne,” Evette says, gently pulling away. Her voice is without inflection, not revealing exhaustion or pain. She sits stiffly on the bench at one of the tables and folds her hands in her lap. “I can eat here.”

 

“Vette,” Alistair says softly, straddling the bench. He cups her cold cheek gently and waits for her to look at him.

 

“Alistair,” she whispers back, watching him steadily.

 

The way she looks at him always makes him feel exposed and vulnerable as if she can see straight to his heart. Without warning, he pulls her close, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her scorched hair. Her arms slip around his waist, gripping his shirt, and he feels her shudder at his warmth.

 

“I thought I’d lost you,” he whispers.

 

“I’m here,” she answers.

 

They hold one another tightly for a moment before he pulls away to kiss her now warm, pink cheek. “You’re warm,” he says with a smile.

 

Her answering smile still makes his stomach quiver. It is the polite smile she wears to make people feel comfortable, but a small, genuine one meant only for him. “You have that effect on me.”

 

“All right, Alistair,” Leliana chirps as she comes closer with a pair of shears. “We only have a few minutes before dinner, and I need to see to this hair.”

 

Evette’s normally serene expression falls away, and she fingers the burnt edges of her hair nervously. Over the months, she’d slowly let down her walls, allowing each of them inside her defenses and see her honestly, but her sudden show of nervousness is still a little surprising. Alistair takes her hand from her hair, squeezing gently, and gives her a bright smile. “You’re the most beautiful woman in the world, with or without it.”

 

Evette can’t help but smile back at him; his smile always gives her strength. Like him, it’s strong and brilliant and makes her feel secure in his love. She nods and lets Leliana take her to a place near the fire, and sits quietly while her friend cuts the burnt ends of her hair away. 

 

Morrigan hands her a golden hand mirror- the one Evette had found for her in Orzammar- so she can watch her transformation. If she allowed it, she would weep over the loss of her great length of black hair, but she holds herself too tightly, unwilling to let anyone see how this simple act of cutting away burned hair causes her great pain.

 

Alistair doesn’t watch and she can’t blame him; her hair had been a delight to him as well. Once it’s over and her hair hangs to her shoulders in waves, she puts the mirror down and refuses to look again. After wearing it long the vast majority of her life, the missing weight of it is strange, and she tosses her head unsteadily. When she returns to sit beside Alistair and accept her bowl of stew, he puts an arm around her and squeezes gently.

 

“Beautiful, Vette.”

 

“I’m rather tired,” she says, keeping her eyes down.

 

She makes it through a small dinner before she starts to nod off and lean against him, and murmurs a weak protest when he picks her up. His warmth is almost overwhelming for one who’s spent most of her life dressing in layers to protect others from her freezing touch, but she shivers with delight and presses her face to his neck as he carries her upstairs.

  
“I love you,” she whispers against his skin. “I miss my hair.”

 

His chuckle rumbles in his chest like a roaring fire. “I love you,” he replies, nudging the door closed with his hip.

 

“I’m not ready for bed.”

 

“Vette, you need rest,” he reminds her, laying her in bed and tugging off her boots.

 

“Do you really like my hair?” she yawns, being utterly useless as he attempts to undress her.

 

“It’s on your head, so yes,” he laughs, shucking his own clothes. “I love everything about you.”

 

She snorts as he climbs into the bed beside her, the hair on his chest scratching pleasantly against her breasts as he pulls her close. Wrapped in his arms, she sighs, letting the pain and struggles of the day drain from her, leaving only exhaustion and the electrifying mingling of his warmth and her own iciness.  _ I love everything about you, _ he’d said, and she believes him. Time and again he proved how much he loved her, and she always feels so undeserving. 

 

“Sleep, my love,” he murmurs, stroking her shoulder-length hair. “Andraste watch over you.”


End file.
